I love traveling! My favorite mode of transportation is the car. It gives me the chance to see how many people have no respect for the limits and laws that line our highways. To be honest, I'm surprised that there aren't more accidents on the roads. Especially through the work zones, where drivers fly through the narrow lanes, oblivious to the reduced speed limit, for the safety of the workers, and fellow drivers. Is the place you have to get too so important that the lives of others have no consequence? It makes me wonder! As do most things in this wonderful world we live in. Anyway, the views of nature's ways always make me feel alive and thankful for the beauty that surrounds me. Can't wait for my next road trip across this land. Until next time.
As I strolled through a street in Santa Fe, along the fences edge were empty half pint liquor bottles, followed by a few mini's and a couple beers cans. I thought to myself that someone probably just sat there last night on the curb wallowing in whatever sorrow they thought fit to bring them to this drunken trashing. Is there anything that is bad enough to put your body through something like that. We all know it's a vicious circle, this drinking addiction, because that's just what it is. An affliction, just like a drug habit, or any other addiction that kills you. The only difference is that it's legal, available, accepted. And for the most part, if you don't drink you're considered an outcast, like somethings wrong with you. We all have problems, and I guess it all depends on how the individual handles it. But if you are going to drink on someone's property, at least clean up after yourself. We live in such a thoughtful society, don't you think?
Is it not true what I see when I open my heart?
Sentencing the heroic organ to solitary confinement.
Do I still possess those demons of times past?
Waiting for the moment of weakness.
Can I dislodge the lost and misunderstood messages
of temporary loves and lusts?
Had I even known the difference?
Call me sentimental,
but I can not seal away the tragedies
of my youth without first
Will I not succeed in this never ending quests?
Will I not find my grail?
Sip sweet, golden nectars with Deities of Antiquity,
quenching my thirst, tantalizing dormant taste buds,
rejoicing in the blood of the Goddess.
"Go now," I say. "There is nothing more to be had here."
The stolen corpse has come back to life,
an eternal haunting from buried temptations.
Shall I set them free?
Is it not true
what my heart sees
when I open my eyes?
Can I swallow the ignorance of aging guilt,
wrapped tight around canisters of molten ice.
Glaciers of blue melt in the moon's heat,
while icicles dangle frigidly from the sun's summer cold.
Are we all not just set in stone,
collected pebbles on a receding, lapping shore.
Do I dare move out of place?
Will I tilt the earth off her axis?
Will my life and actions continue
to regret themselves,
as they always do?
Will I recognize insanity when he raises his maniacal head?
Will I know Satan when he shakes my hand?
Or has he already,
and now he's a friend.
What will my heart see,
when she opens
Well, I learned my first harsh lesson blogging. Yesterday I thought I posted a blog call Another Day in Santa Fe, and believed it went through. But today when I get here, to my site, I only see the title. The only thing I recall about the piece is Ceersucker suit. Darn, my words have been eaten by the black hole! Maybe they'll reappear in another life.
Sunny, hazy skies greet me this morning with sparrows, tucked into their Ceer-sucker suits, (called Nola for the correct spelling) tearing bark from tiny fragile branches. It's nesting time. Songs of carefully crafted tweets, non techno, vibrate through the quiet air. I'm comforted! The woes of past days sliding out from under me as I rejoice in the newness of life. The fresh exhilaration of starting something different. The energetic adrenaline flow that races through my blood stream, telling me, whispering inside of me the fragility of life and how not to take it for granted. Am I the strong one for accepting responsibility for my actions, my words, feelings. I am nothing more than a human trying to make it in a non-human world. I am humbled by the shallowness of the ponds I am sustained by, long ago the fruits succumbing to decay. If I don't gaze into myself and see the wrongs I've committed, how can I defend accusations of minimal consequence? Be careful one and all, we live in a thin-skinned society. And on that note, here's a little poem.
encouraged by boredom, eve went in search of an apple, she was tired of bananas
Thank-you for joining me for, A Day in Santa Fe.
There are days that seem like everybody is emotional. I'm not talking about the whimpering, crying, bawling emotions, but the angry, I need to show everyone who's boss, the I don't care who I yell at, emotions. Calling each other vulgar names and then slipping that knife in the back just a little bit more as you walk away. Feel better guy? I try not to get sucked up in the immaturity of people around me, but some times it's very hard, no, most times it's really hard. I try to figure it out, making excuses for others behavior, but not really an excuse, but a logical reason why they're acting that way. Here are some I've come up with: A third day wearing the same underwear. There's a wrinkle in their sock and it's making their feet hurt. A lost mite has nestled in their ear, and is about to lay eggs. When they went to think about some thing, they forgot what they wanted to think about. They looked in the mirror and saw the same face they saw yesterday. Who knows, who cares. People just need to get over themselves! Ya know!
So, for the second day in a row I'm able to get to my blog site and write a post. I've been thinking a lot lately about the ways of the world and how they affect my psyche, and how immune I'm becoming to the tragedies of everyday. Now, I expect to hear about a mass shooting or a bomb going off somewhere, or some accusing someone about something. It's kind of like we're living in a society full of bounty hunters and hedge men. In the floods of the me, me, me sea, we've forgotten the main point of our existence. Compassion! For those who have forgotten the definition to this word according to Webster: sympathetic consciousness of others' distress, with a desire to alieve it. Tell me people, is this such a hard feat?
Mary Maurice wrote her first poem when she was in the ninth grade, and hasn't stopped writing since. Catching the fire at an early age, she continues to dedicate her time to the craft.